


Elysium

by inlovewithnight



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-07
Updated: 2006-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Elysium

The report was a surprise for about five minutes. Then it made perfect sense, and Lee could've cheerfully kicked his own ass for not seeing it sooner. The black market was there to give people what they needed, like Zarek and Phelan had said. And people needed more than food, clothes, drugs, _things_. They needed release. They needed a little bit of freedom.

And Cloud Nine wasn't exactly that. A little too upscale, a little too stuffy and shiny clean. Not the spit-shine and military polish of Galactica, but the money-shine of the luxury liner it was before the end of the world. Not everybody was going to feel comfortable there. Not everybody could feel free.

So the black market provided.

He'd been visiting Prometheus regularly, just as he'd promised, but this was the first time he'd seen this particular cargo bay. Or maybe he had seen it before, and now it was just unrecognizable. Didn't much matter. Now it was...frak, it was a _club_. Not anything like the quiet bar on Cloud Nine. Loud, dissonant music with a heavy beat was piped in over a speaker system that had to have been hot-wired from about three different sources. The main lights were out, and the bay was illuminated in random bursts from equally jury-rigged lighting systems. Colored lights, white lights, spotlights, strobe lights, on and off in patterns that came either out of a computer or a bored, stimmed-out operator. It left Lee a little dizzy, a little disoriented, as he stepped through the double doors and picked his way along the edge of the bay, keeping close to the walls and off of the dance floor.

And people were dancing, like it was the end of all times and they could make it to Elysium on sheer physical ecstasy. They were letting go, giving themselves over to the music and the darkness in a beautiful frenzy. He stopped and watched, eyes moving from one body to the next, looking for...he didn't know. His pilots, maybe? Or anyone he knew? A face he could match to the alien current in the air, a name he could seize on and think _oh,_ that's _the kind of person who wants this._

He recognized the layered tops and loose trousers of an off-duty pilot and turned all his attention to that form, moving away from the wall and crossing the floor before he thought to stop himself. And then it was too late, he was part of the ebb and flow of the floor, and bodies in motion blocked his retreat. So he kept going, eyes fixed on the familiar clothing-- the same as he was wearing himself-- and the cloud of straight, dark hair flying loose and hiding the pilot's face from his scrutiny.

She turned when he was within arm's reach, and tilted her head back, eyes closed and face bright with sweat under the pulsing lights. He stopped again, people bumping against him and moving away, the impact hardly registering through his surprise. _Edmondson?_

Racetrack was the last person he would've plugged into the idea of _the kind of person who wants this_ , but he couldn't deny what he saw. She was lost in the music, her body loose and perfectly tuned to the beat, her eyes still tightly closed. Then she was the one bumping against him, and she looked up.

For a moment her face went blank with surprise, and she faltered, losing the rough grace of dancing and going as still as he was. But then she smiled, wider and more genuine than he'd ever seen on her face before, and came closer still, catching his hand in hers.

"Don't just stand there, Apollo," she said, pitching her voice just loud enough to reach his ears above the music. "This isn't the flight deck. Dance."

She had to be joking. There was no way, he didn't...he didn't _dance_. Ask anyone. She had to be out of her frakking mind.

But she had the beat again, moving easily in front of him, close enough that her clothing rasped against his, and her hands were sliding warm and steady up and down his arms. "Just feel it," she said, more softly, soft enough that he probably shouldn't have been able to hear it at all except she was close enough that he could smell the sweat on her skin, and she seemed to have decided that they were the only two people that mattered in the room. "Just go with it, Apollo. Come on."

So he danced with her. Lee Adama, the stuck-up tightass with no sense of fun, dancing with a subordinate in an off-record club on the ship at the heart of the black market. Nobody would believe that story if he told it, and therefore it wasn't real, he wasn't himself, and this was okay.

He found the place inside the music, after a few minutes, or maybe she guided him to it, where the beat and the flow connected directly to his brain and the rhythm of his heart. No thought necessary, no planning, nobody at the controls. Autopilot. She took him there and he followed. She smiled, that loose dark hair whipping around her face, hiding and revealing her in flashes as they worked their way across the floor.

He slid his leg between both of hers and she moved closer, rubbing against his thigh. He lost the beat again, stumbling, as he felt the press of something between his body and hers, too soft to be her sidearm and in the wrong place anyway, a definite bulge at the front of her pants, where you'd expect to find a...

She stopped as well, shifting back so they no longer touched but still close enough that he could feel her rough, uneven breath against his chest. Her eyebrows rose, challenge flashing in her eyes, and she brushed her hair back off her sweat-slick forehead. He tilted his head a little, letting the question cross unspoken. She licked her lips and leaned in, stretching up toward him as she spoke.

"It's a sock, sir. Sock done up in support tape." She still looked challenging, but there was excitement there, too, her blood hot and pumping fast from the dancing, her adrenaline up. He knew it because his own body echoed it. "You have heard of that, haven't you, Apollo?"

"Heard of it," he said, and she shifted forward again, pressing her body and the additional packing against his thigh. "Just didn't...guess I didn't think...I'd never thought about..."

She laughed, running one hand back through her hair again, the other one slipping around to the small of his back and holding him in place as she slowly rubbed the soft-solid bulge of the sock against him. "There's more out there than black and white, Apollo."

He swallowed and looked down into her eyes, wide and dark and electric, so brazenly asking if he had the balls to follow this out. And that thought was so appropriate and inappropriate at once, so reflexive and disconnected and... _insane_ , given the circumstances, that he wanted to laugh. It was so frakking bizarre. Where they were, what he'd thought, the slow build of heated excitement that seemed to be flowing up from the point of contact on his thigh, straight to his groin and his brain alike...all of it conspired to short out his brain and leave him saying something stupid. "So does that mean you like girls, Racetrack?"

"Like girls. Like boys. Like you." The hand on his back slid down to caress the curve of his ass, and she slid higher against his thigh, pressing the full length of her makeshift dick against him. "Don't be so frakking binary, Captain."

"Don't call me Captain," he said, settling his hands on her waist and holding her just where she was-- no closer, but not an inch farther away.

She licked her lips again, and smiled. "No ranks here, huh?"

He shook his head, his lips parting in a sharp gasp as she slid her hand around his hip to brush against his cock.

"You want to keep dancing?" she asked. "Or you want to go back to my room?"

He should've frakking known they'd have rooms here, too. One-stop shopping for vice, after all. Should've been called Dionysus, not Prometheus.

She was smirking at him again, open challenge, and rubbing her palm slowly up and down. Torture. Crazy, frakked-up woman, and apparently he didn't know anything about her at all, and he was her superior, and the thing to do in an orderly universe was...

"If you've got a room I'd like to see it," he said, and maybe the ease of his agreement should've surprised him, but after all: nobody would believe this anyway, so it wasn't real. And he wanted like hell to know what else fell between black and white.  
***  
It was less of a room and more of a half-modified supply closet, with a cot along one wall, a stripped-down sink, and a bare metal table. He hesitated when he stepped through the door, not wanting to go straight to the bed but not knowing what the hell else to do, and she slipped around him, smiling slightly as she tugged the door close and hit the latch.

"Hold on a minute," she said, bumping his hip with hers to nudge him toward the table. She stepped over to the cot and pulled her duffel out from under it, her body blocking his view as she rummaged through it and slipped something into the pocket of her pants.

"What--" he started to say as she turned to face him, but she shook her head and crossed back to him quickly, crowding him back against the table. The edge of it dug into the small of his back and he shifted, widening his stance. She settled between his legs and kissed him, letting the weight of her body carry his back as far as it would go.

It was a painful position to hold, and he wiggled under her, trying to find a way the edge of the table could meet his body without too much pressure or contortion of his spine. She didn't seem to care, riding out his motions and devouring his mouth, her hands curved around the table on either side of his hips and her groin fitted tight to his. The curve of the thing in her pants-- he didn't know how to think of it, what to call it in his own head except frakking _good_ as it pressed and slid against his cock with each move either of them made.

She slid one of her legs out and around his, then the other, so she was straddling him, holding him back against the edge of the table. She had the leverage now and used it, humping against him steadily until he broke away to groan against her mouth. She laughed, a warm huff of breath against his skin.

"Like that, Captain?"

"No ranks," he shot back, swallowing hard against another moan as she ground against him.

"Right. No ranks." She turned her head to bite at the soft flesh under his jaw. "You like that, Adama? Lee?"

"Like you can't tell I frakking do," he said, and she laughed again.

"Think you can handle a little more?" She licked across his throat and bit at the flesh on the other side. "Or you want to go back to nice and safe? Black and white? Binary and..." Her tongue danced over the teeth marks she'd left in his skin. "...boring?"

He swallowed hard before answering, but it wasn't a hesitation. "What'd you have in mind?"

She pulled back and reached into her pocket, taking out the things she'd brought over in her bag. His breath caught in his throat as she held up a dildo and a bottle of lubricant that she must've had stashed in her locker since-- _since she transferred to Galactica, probably, Adama, you stupid frak. If fraternizing's against the regs and R &R's not for a month you've gotta do something._

"Have you ever before?" she asked, her voice rough and eager still but uncertainty showing in her eyes. Freaking out the CO was a good way to get yourself on shit patrols, after all, even if he couldn't directly hold off-duty actions against her.

"Yeah," he said, the honest answer coming up automatically. Her eyebrows rose again and he shrugged, a little defensive. What, he couldn't have ever experimented? Didn't everyone frak around in college, and if not there, Gods knew once you got to _basic_ there wasn't a chance in holy hell that you weren't going to...

"And you want to?" she prompted, and he realized she was going to make him say it explicitly before she laid one finger on him skin-to-skin. That was Edmondson, frakking smart, even hopped up on adrenaline and horny as hell.

"Yeah," he said, shifting his stance again and letting his groin brush against her. "Yes."

She grinned, consent secured and anticipation taking over. "All right, then, Adama. Turn over."

He did, bracing his forearms against the table and ducking his head, bringing his breathing down slow and easy and going through stupid pilot mental tricks to relax his body. She reached around and opened his fly, then tugged his trousers and shorts down his thighs. She curved her hand around his cock and stroked him slowly, pressing up against his ass and rubbing against him again while her free hand popped open the lubricant.

"All right," she said again, hoarsely, her breath hot against his back as she released him and picked up the dildo. "All right." He heard the soft wet sounds of her spreading gel on the thing, and then her fingers settled against his body and slicked him as well, getting him ready. Then her hand was gone, replaced by smooth, solid pressure, and he gasped, his forehead thumping down on the table as she pushed the dildo into him.

She stilled, waiting for him to relax. The uneven rhythms of their breathing were loud in the tiny room. "All right?" she said again, a question now, and he nodded, eyes wide, watching the flare and fade of condensation as his breath puffed against the table.

She eased the thing in deeper, slowly, letting him get used to it. He felt her free hand fumbling between her body and his, then the soft sound of her zipper opening. Belatedly he realized she was going to want to get off on this too, a little more intensely than just watching.

Her hand settled on his forearm, tugging gently, and he lifted his head to glance back at her. She tugged his arm again and he let her lift it, shifting his weight onto the other forearm resting on the table. She ran her hand down his arm to catch his hand and guide it down to his cock. "Touch yourself," she said, nodding at him. He let his forehead drop again, resting it on his other arm. He closed his eyes as she began to thrust the dildo in a slow, steady rhythm that he echoed as he stroked himself. He felt her hand slide between them again, fingers moving in that same rhythm as she worked them against her clit and into her body. That rhythm of thrust and slide and sensation flowed between them, offset from the loud rasp of their breath and the blood pounding in their veins.

"Frak, yes," she hissed, and he felt her shifting again, moving more directly behind him, and a glance back from the corner of his eye showed that she had braced the end of the dildo against the knuckles of the hand she was using to work herself, the thrust coming from that hand and her hips while the other hand steadied the thing. The side of her hand pressed warm and solid against his buttock as the dildo slid in and out of his body, steady and hard and so frakking good along with the feel of his hand.

"Gods," she panted, lowering her head, her breath hot against the back of his neck again and her hair brushing across his shoulders. Those last fragments of sensation were too much and he came over his hand, letting out a short, choked gasp that he buried in the curve of his arm. Her breath caught and she thrust a little harder, a little deeper, the dildo shivering inside him as she worked her fingers against her clit, and then a low moan escaped her throat as she rested her forehead against his back, shuddered and went still.

Neither moved for a long moment, rough breathing still the only sound in the room, until she eased the dildo from his body and dropped it to the table, then stepped away. "Sir," she said faintly, uncertainly. "Apollo."

He straightened slowly, blinking against the sweat running into his eyes and trying to assess his body through the endorphin haze. Probably was going to be sore-- it had been a few years since he'd done this, after all. _Well. Never done_ this _, Lee._ No sharp pain, though, no alarm bells. He turned to face her and nodded.

"Thanks for the...art lesson, Racetrack," he said, chuckling breathlessly at the confusion that crossed her face. "Not black and white, right? So...colors? Art? Maybe not?"

"You're such an unbelievable nerd, sir," she said, slowly breaking into a grin. "With all due respect."

"Least you didn't call me a tightass," he said, and she stumbled back and dropped to sit on the edge of the cot, hands clasped to her mouth to muffle her howls of laughter. He leaned on the table, unable to stand up straight through his own laughter, until she shifted over and patted the thin mattress beside her.

"C'mon, Adama, there's not really room for two in this rack but we'll make do. Can't go wandering around this ship in the middle of the night with your dick hanging out."

"I could put my pants back on," he pointed out.

She shook her head. "No, you can't, I busted the zipper getting you out of 'em." She shrugged apologetically. "We'll figure it out in the morning. I don't know about you, but I'm wiped."

"Yeah." He nodded and crossed to sit beside her, eyeing the flimsy cot and hoping it wouldn't collapse in the middle of the night. She slid her trousers off and reached into her underwear, producing the taped-up sock and tossing it into her duffel bag. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Just a girl now, Racetrack?"

She rolled her eyes and reached up to hit the sensor for the lights. "Don't be a jackass, Apollo. Go to sleep."  



End file.
